


Precious Things (are)

by fandomlver



Series: the fight that will give you the right (to be free) [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, I say yes, Remix, Slavery, flogging as punishment, is it still a remix if it's your own fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3312617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Precious things are dreams unto an exile...</p><p>An alternate version of Dreams Unto an Exile, written for a kinkmeme prompt. d'Artagnan and Louis end up on the galleys after all. Trapped away from his brothers and with only himself to rely on, d'Artagnan must do everything in his power to keep them both alive and get them back to France.</p><p>The first three chapters are exactly the same as Dreams; the changes start in chapter four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dreams unto an Exile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200444) by [fandomlver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver). 



d'Artagnan runs out of comfort the day they step onto the galley.

Until then, he has been steadfast in his reassurances. The Musketeers are looking for him, he knows this as he knows his own name, and he’s certain they’ll be found. What slavers can possibly outwit the King’s finest?

Louis seems to be mostly in shock. He hasn’t spoken since Pepin’s death, shot because d'Artagnan wasn’t moving fast enough. Both are still spattered with blood – and other substances – despite d'Artagnan’s haphazard attempts at cleaning them during infrequent rest breaks.

d'Artagnan’s almost glad the king’s in shock. It makes him easier to handle.

He’s taken to calling the king Henri. It’s less obvious than Louis, and he can’t address him by title. Louis accepts it in numb silence.

The galley they board in Honfleur already has a crew and they’re herded down into the hold and chained to the wall. They’re packed uncomfortably close together; d'Artagnan is reminded sharply of the plans Bonnaire drew up, the ones that drove Porthos into such fury.

“d'Artagnan,” Louis says abruptly.

d'Artagnan twitches. He’s not foolish enough to think himself famous, but his commission was very public and the king has shown him off at court several times since, including to the Spanish Ambassador. It’s ridiculous, he knows, to think that because one Spaniard knows his name another will, but he’s terrified they’ll figure out who Louis is.

“It’s Charles, Henri,” he murmurs.

“I’m thirsty,” Louis says.

d'Artagnan swallows. “Yes.” Used to short rations, most of his water has gone to Louis, and most of what’s left has been used to clean them up.

Louis doesn’t seem to have anything else to say. d'Artagnan shifts slightly. “They need us able to work. They’ll bring something.”

“Not for a while yet,” someone says from several spaces away; d'Artagnan can’t see him in the gloom. “They’re weeding out the weak.”

“You’ll be fine,” d'Artagnan says mechanically; he’s not sure Louis is even hearing him.

Someone starts humming a funeral dirge, and d'Artagnan fights the urge to bury his head in his arms. One of them has to be aware.

 

He thinks it’s more than a day later when the guard finally appears. Louis has eschewed royal dignity to curl against him as best he can; d'Artagnan’s hot and uncomfortable in the muggy hold, but he hasn’t moved. The guard starts at the far end of the hold with a bucket and ladle. He’s oddly careful to spill as little as possible, but he skips straight over several men who are either dead or unconscious.

d'Artagnan jostles Louis as best he can. “Wake up,” he croaks, startled at the pain in his throat. He hadn’t thought he was that badly off yet.

He pokes and shoves Louis awake just as the guard reaches them. Louis gulps the couple of mouthfuls eagerly, seeming not to notice that he’s spilling on himself. The guard yanks the ladle away, dips it and turns to d'Artagnan.

“Give it to him,” d'Artagnan says. His throat’s burning and there’s a headache pounding behind his eyes, but Louis needs it more.

The guard snorts. “Every man gets his share and no more. Drink or go thirsty.”

d'Artagnan gives in, reaching for the ladle. The water’s stale and it tastes odd, but it eases his throat a little. The guard moves on and d'Artagnan leans back against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Louis doesn’t answer.

Lethargy sets in too fast and too deep to be natural. d'Artagnan watches, dazed, as another couple of guards come in and begin removing the dead and unconscious men. Then they return and begin examining each of the remaining prisoners, talking to each other in Spanish and laughing.

They reach d'Artagnan first this time. He endures the inspection in silence; he’s already decided not to fight back unless he has to. As good as it would feel to hit back, he knows he couldn’t possibly win, and he can’t leave Louis here alone.

When they reach for Louis he pulls back in fear. d'Artagnan catches at the nearest arm, trying to block them, but he’s shaken off abruptly, backhanded into the hull behind him. The blow and the drug together prove irresistible, and he slides into darkness.

 

When he surfaces the room is pitch black and moving gently. He touches his head lightly, avoiding the most painful part. His fingers come back sticky.

His hair’s been shorn off, he notes absently.

Sitting up is far more painful than it should be; his ribs scream as he moves and he groans, pressing a hand against them. What happened?

“They kicked you,” Louis says abruptly. d'Artagnan jumps, and then stifles a curse at the flare of pain. “You were unconscious and they kicked you and laughed. I tried to make them stop.”

“Did they hurt you?” d'Artagnan asks when he can breathe evenly enough.

“They cut my hair.”

He senses a rant about royalty being sacrosanct coming on and moves to avoid it. “Mine too. Are you injured, Henri?”

d'Artagnan’s other neighbour shifts. “Will you two shut up? I’m trying to sleep.”

d'Artagnan manages to catch Louis’ eye before he responds. Grudgingly, he settles down. d'Artagnan’s left to find a position he can both breathe and sleep in.

It’s fitful, troubled sleep, and he feels no better when they’re woken by a guard coming down with food. It’s a different guard, but he stands over d'Artagnan to make sure he doesn’t try and give anything to Louis. They’re clearly already getting a reputation.

It’s hardtack, almost inedible. d'Artagnan forces it down, thinking fast. He needs to deal with this quickly.

“You speak French, monsieur?” He keeps his voice polite and his body language deferential. If the guard speaks no French, he’s in trouble; he knows a few Spanish words, courtesy of Aramis, but those particular words won’t help him here.

The guard laughs. “Should forget French, boy. No help where you’re going.”

“My friend…”

“He your master, boy. You a soldier, he a gent. Say it right.”

“My master,” d'Artagnan repeats unhesitatingly. “He’s – slow. He’ll work, but he needs me to show him first. He won’t understand if you tell him. Can you please tell your masters? We’re not making trouble, but we need to be together.”

The guard squats. “Slow in the head?” d'Artagnan nods. Louis is vibrating with anger beside him, but so far, at least, he hasn’t spoken. “Must be good master, you still trying to help him. No more pay for you now.”

“He’s a good master.”

The guard shoves to his feet. “No promises. I tell them.”

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan says, and then has to spend five minutes coaxing Louis to eat the hardtack under the guard’s curious eye.

“It keeps us together,” he murmurs as soon as the guard’s far enough away. “I can’t let them separate us, and getting myself killed protecting you won’t help. And this way I can show you what to do.”

”So I must be the simple one?”

“It would be hard to protect you if they thought I was simple,” d'Artagnan points out.

His neighbour shifts and d'Artagnan falls silent, trying to get some more rest while he can.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is brief discussion of beating as punishment in this chapter.

It’s probably another day before anyone reappears, and these guards start taking people out in groups of three. There’s enough light to do a head count, and d'Artagnan suppresses a curse. He and Louis will be separated into different groups.

He’s ready to beg again, but the guard takes them both together. On deck, their clothes are cut off and each has a bucket of sea water thrown over them; it stings like hellfire on d'Artagnan’s head and torso, but he knows it’s as close as he’s likely to get to medical care. Louis endures in tight lipped silence.

They’re given rough shirts and breeches and unchained one at a time to dress. As soon as he’s dressed one of the guards drags d'Artagnan across the deck, flinging him to his knees in front of a tall, well dressed man.

“This is the soldier?” the man asks in accented French. Someone murmurs an answer. “Look up, soldier.”

d'Artagnan obeys, sitting back on his heels.

“You pled for your master. Why?”

“I’m sworn to protect him,” d'Artagnan answers honestly.

The man touches d'Artagnan’s head, tilting it to see the gash. “Even when it brings you injury?”

“Even if it brings me death,” d'Artagnan says evenly. “I don’t want to die here, but if you try and separate us, I’ll fight.”

“Will he?”

“Probably not very well,” d'Artagnan says carefully. Louis is a fast and accurate shot, but he’s not as good a swordsman as he thinks and he’s all but useless in a physical fight.

“And if I allow you to stay together?”

d'Artagnan shrugs. “Then we won’t resist or fight back. We’ll work willingly.”

“And you’ll make no attempt to escape.”

He hesitates, examining the words from all angles. “I can’t promise that,” he says finally. “My duty to my master means I must help him escape if I can.”

One of the guards goes to strike him. d'Artagnan doesn’t flinch, and the tall man stops the blow with a gesture.

“I like you,” he announces. “I rarely meet a man of honour.”

d'Artagnan considers feigning shock, decides against it, and doesn’t react at all.

“I will keep you together.”

He relaxes, letting his head fall, knowing it will be seen as submission. “Thank you.”

“I have a condition. I think perhaps you would have asked for it anyway.” He hunkers, studying d'Artagnan from inches away. “On the galleys all obey or are punished. Since you will be teaching him the rules, it will be your fault if he breaks them. So any punishments will fall to you. Should you both transgress, you will receive both punishments. Do you understand?”

“I do. And you’re right. I would have asked it.”

“What is your name?”

“Charles.”

“And his?”

“Henri.”

The man sighed. “That is the first lie you have told me. But it is a small lie, so I will let it pass. Be sure it’s the last lie you tell me.”

The guards drag him to his feet and he stumbles back to Louis. “It’s all right, Henri,” he says clearly as Louis plucks anxiously at his sleeve. “They’re keeping us together.”

Louis’ face clouds briefly and then clears. “Henri,” he mutters. “And you’re Charles.”

“Yes.”

“What did you promise them to keep us together?”

“Only that we would work hard. And I think we’d have worked had whether we wanted to or not.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” Louis murmurs.

“The – our friends have followed colder trails than this one,” d'Artagnan says quietly.

“My son was baptised yesterday,” Louis says softly.

d'Artagnan has no answer for that.

 

d'Artagnan’s not quite sure what he thinks of their new master.

True to his promise, no one attempts to separate them. Apart from a few jeers that d'Artagnan coaches Louis through ignoring, no one speaks to Louis; orders all go through d'Artagnan first. Now that they’re actually working, food and water is better and more plentiful. Louis mostly confines his complaints to when they’re alone and mostly does the work he’s given.

The benches are built for three. d'Artagnan and Louis don’t have a third, and they’re not permitted to fall behind the others. By the end of the first day both are blistered, bleeding, and all but unable to move with cramps; things don’t improve much as time goes on. d'Artagnan tends Louis as best he can and sets himself on the outside of the bench, where he can control the sweep and let Louis take breaks every now and then. If the guards know what he’s doing – and he thinks they probably do – they don’t interfere.

He doesn’t think Louis has realised what he’s doing either; the king seems to think taking breaks while rowing is normal, even though no one around them stops. Depending on the distances they’re trying to travel, they’re either taken from the benches to sleep in the hold or left where they are to snatch what rest they can. Those nights are bad, as it’s almost impossible to find a position they can relax in.

Today they’ve been travelling at speed, and d'Artagnan knows they’ll be allowed to rest soon; they simply aren’t capable of continuing at this speed. Louis is whimpering on every stroke, more being dragged along by the oar’s movement than affecting it in any way.

“Rest!” a guard shouts. All over the deck slaves groan, shipping the oars and collapsing where they are. “Charles, on your feet!”

d'Artagnan obeys, silencing Louis with a gesture. The guard comes across, unchains him from the bench, and gives him a shove towards the cabin. d'Artagnan goes without protest.

He’s getting used to this. Every couple of days their master calls him to his cabin for a conversation. At first d'Artagnan was wary, seeing a plot to get Louis alone; now he thinks Domingo is actually as fascinated by his honour as he claimed to be.

“How does your master find the work?” he asks today, offering d'Artagnan a cup of water and a seat.

d'Artagnan avoids the seat, but he takes the water, draining the cup before answering. “He finds it difficult, senor. But he keeps up.”

“He keeps up because you carry him. You fascinate me, Charles. You do the work of three because he is lazy.”

“He’s not lazy. He’s just not used to this. Every day he works harder.”

“So in perhaps a year he will be as capable as any other man is on his first day. You know, those who serve me sometimes earn freedom from the galleys. You will not so long as he drags you down.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head. “You don’t free your slaves, and if you did you would never free us. Henri’s nobility, you’d be hanged for his kidnap.”

“I said freedom from the galleys, not freedom. There is other work in the great Spanish empire. Especially for a man such as you.”

“I won’t soldier for Spain, Domingo.”

Domingo hums, pouring another cup of water. “You call your master Henri.”

“It keeps him focused.” d'Artagnan’s not quite sure why Domingo lets him away with calling him by name; possibly because he never does it in company, only alone in these strange meetings. Louis has never complained about being called Henri, but in private d'Artagnan still addresses him by title anyway.

“A permissive master. How did you come to his service?”

d'Artagnan sips the water to give himself time. He hasn’t lied since their first conversation. Sometimes Domingo will allow him to refuse to answer, but not often, and d'Artagnan is loath to do it. It only shows that the subject is important.

Domingo reaches across the desk, taking the cup from him. “Charles.”

“My father was killed, and the man I thought guilty was in my master’s employ. He helped me find the true culprit and took me on as his apprentice.”

“Yet your loyalty is to your master, not to this man who helped you.”

“He isn’t here,” d'Artagnan points out. “And he would be the first to tell me Henri’s life is more important than anything else. If you’re waiting for me to give up on him, Domingo, it won’t happen. I’m his man until death.”

“What I could do with a hundred men like you,” Domingo says with a sigh, refilling the cup. He pushes it back towards d'Artagnan. “Tell me something, Charles. If I made you an offer, would you consider it? Or reject it out of hand because of who we are?”

“I suppose it would depend on the offer.”

One of the guards knocks hurriedly on the door, pushing it open. There’s a quick discussion in Spanish before Domingo turns to him. “Henri is causing trouble. He has struck one of my men.”

d'Artagnan closes his eyes briefly. “Let me go to him.”

“You know what this means.”

“Yes. Let me go to him. Please.”

Domingo gestures to the guard, who steps aside. d'Artagnan follows the noise back to the oars, sliding between guards before they realise he’s there. One of them cuffs him across the back of the head; he barely feels it, dropping to his knees next to Louis. “Henri.”

Louis scrambles to grip his arm, panting and terrified. “They were taking me away and you weren’t here!”

“They’re just taking you down to the hold to rest,” d'Artagnan tells him. “That’s all. No one’s trying to hurt you.”

“Where were you?” Louis demands. With every passing day he becomes more childish, less able to cope with the unexpected. It’s better for their story, but he’s increasingly hard to handle.

“I was attending on the senor.”

“I’m your master, you’re supposed to attend on me!”

d'Artagnan half turns, looking for a guard he knows speaks French. His Spanish is getting better, but it’s not good enough for this yet. “Let me take him below, and then I’ll come back up.” Louis protests wordlessly and d'Artagnan hushes him. “They need me to do something. It won’t take long and I’ll be back with you.”

He looks back at the guard. “Don’t make him watch this.”

The guard gestures them to go. d'Artagnan coaxes Louis down to the hold, extracts a promise from him not to move, and returns to the deck. Domingo’s waiting and d'Artagnan halts uncertainly beside him.

“Still loyal?” Domingo asks. d'Artagnan doesn’t bother to answer, and Domingo doesn’t seem surprised. “I have ordered the rod. You will bruise, but it will not break the skin. Striking a guard is five hits. Keep count in your head.”

He holds up a leather strip. d'Artagnan starts to refuse, but Domingo shakes his head. “It’s not a choice. Men have bitten their tongues and choked. That’s no way for a man like you to die. Open.”

d'Artagnan allows him to tie the gag in place. A guard unlocks one cuff and he takes off his shirt. The guard guides him to a post seemingly installed just for this. The guard pushes d'Artagnan against it, face first, and locks the cuff back around his wrist. The chain is fastened to a hook above his head, drawing him up on his toes and forward against the pole.

“Wet him down!” Domingo shouts, and water douses him from neck to feet. d'Artagnan shudders, pressing his forehead into the post, and waits for the first blow to fall.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time d'Artagnan is fully aware, he’s lying on his side on the pallet he shares with Louis and someone is inexpertly rubbing his face with a damp cloth. He moves to stop them and has to freeze at the burning pain in his back.

“…sorry, I’m sorry,” Louis is chanting when he manages to focus again.

“It’s fine,” d'Artagnan manages.

“I saved you water,” Louis tells him. “The guard said you couldn’t have any because you didn’t do any work, so I saved mine.”

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan says in surprise.

Louis awkwardly helps him to sit up and he sips the water. That tiny movement has already left him exhausted.

“Why did they hurt you?” Louis murmurs.

“To make a point, sire.” d'Artagnan can’t stop himself from slumping against Louis; surprisingly, the king only adjusts his position to keep him more or less upright.

“What point?”

“That they can, I think. How long have…”

“Most of a day. I thought you wouldn’t wake up. The guards were making bets.”

d'Artagnan blinks and then laughs softly. “You speak Spanish.”

“It seemed prudent.” Louis is silent for a while, and d'Artagnan drifts, waking when Louis continues, “I haven’t been a good master, have I.”

“It’s not your fault…”

“No excuses. It’s my duty to protect you as much as yours to protect me. I’ll be better, Charles.”

“I’m all right,” d'Artagnan tells him. “Is it night?”

“Yes. You have a little more time to rest.”

“Good,” d'Artagnan murmurs, letting himself sink again.

He’s dreading going back to the rowing bench, but he knows he won’t be given any more time. He’s surprised when a guard comes to squat beside them, eyeing them before saying “You sew?”

“I so?” d'Artagnan repeats, confused.

The guard scowls. “ _Sew_. Needle, thread.” He mimes a looping stitch.

“Sew,” d'Artagnan says, relieved. “Yes, I can sew.”

“Him?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan says firmly. “He can.”

The guard takes them both up onto the deck – the sight of the sky nearly blinds d'Artagnan – and sets them in a corner of the deck with ripped sails, needles and thread. d'Artagnan threads Louis’ needle and shows him what to do. Louis picks it up surprisingly quickly.

Sitting up is a strain on d'Artagnan, but it’s far easier than rowing would be and he’s able to lean against the railing to take some of the strain off. The sun and fresh air make up for the discomfort. They’re being watched, but they’re always being watched; no one’s actively hurting them, so d'Artagnan doesn’t care too much.

Once Louis is confident enough in his stitching he starts teaching d'Artagnan Spanish, starting with the phrases that might actually be useful to them and moving on to others. d'Artagnan’s accent is terrible, but he’s more concerned with understanding than being understood, and Louis has an impeccable accent.

Domingo comes by, pausing to inspect the work. “One more day, Charles. Then back to the oars. Yes?”

“Yes, senor,” d'Artagnan says agreeably. Louis keeps his head down, picking at a thread.

On the second day the ship pulls in at a resupply dock. d'Artagnan and Louis keep working in their corner; d'Artagnan’s hoping for a chance to slip away in the bustle, but a guard comes by and fastens their chains to the railing. d'Artagnan grimaces and keeps working. The dock workers keep wandering back and forth with supplies; occasionally one knocks into d'Artagnan or Louis, though it doesn’t seem to be malicious. Louis takes to watching out for them and warning d'Artagnan when to shuffle closer to the railing, out of their way.

Halfway through the last sail he glances up, blinks, and drops his needle in the path of one of the workers. “My apologies!” he all but shouts, in French-accented Spanish. “A mistake, I’m sorry!”

“No harm done,” the worker says genially in Spanish, crouching to pick up the needle and offer it to him. Louis kicks d'Artagnan, who looks up with a scowl and locks eyes with the worker.

Aramis offers the needle back, and Louis takes it, trembling.

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan offers, blinking.

“My pleasure,” Aramis assures him, in French this time, accented with Spanish. He lifts a fold of sail, examining their work. “Fine stitches.”

“A friend taught me.”

“Ah, good friends. Never very far from our hearts.”

“Charles!” Domingo shouts from the bridge, and d'Artagnan drops his gaze back to the sail, stitching quickly. Aramis stands, calling apologies to Domingo, and moves away.

“Quiet,” d'Artagnan warns Louis before he can speak.

“d'Artagnan…!”

“I know. Don’t show it. We don’t need to raise any suspicions.”

Louis scowls, but he obeys, going back to his work. “When do you think they’ll come?” he asks softly.

d'Artagnan glances around the deck without moving his head. “Night,” he murmurs. “We’re mooring. They’ll have an easier time in the dark.”

Domingo strides over, crouching beside them, furious. “What was that?” he spits.

d'Artagnan looks up, frowning. “Senor? Henri dropped his needle. The man returned it and complimented my stitching. That’s all.”

Domingo strikes him. It startles d'Artagnan; Domingo has touched him only once before. “You speak to no one,” he orders harshly. “Not my men, not those workers, not the other slaves, no one.” d'Artagnan flicks his eyes towards Louis and Domingo shakes his head. “Let your master find his own way for now. Not one word, Charles, until I say otherwise. Understand?”

d'Artagnan inclines his head. Domingo shoves to his feet, looking around for the nearest guard. “Get them below, now! Back to the bench.”

It’s pointless, the ship is moored, but d'Artagnan doesn’t fight anyway. The other slaves are below, all the benches empty; Louis and d'Artagnan are chained at separate ends of the room. There’s nothing to lean on or against and sitting up very quickly becomes intolerable; d'Artagnan grits his teeth, staying upright through force of will.

The room is growing darker by the time Domingo comes down, straddling the bench in front of d'Artagnan to study him. “I said that I would make you an offer,” he says softly.

d'Artagnan only watches him; Domingo waves a hand dismissively. “You may answer.”

“I have nothing to say to you, senor.” d'Artagnan can’t see Louis from here, but he hopes the other man will stay quiet.

“You may when you hear the offer.” Domingo glances along the length of the deck before looking back at d'Artagnan. “We aren’t far from France, Charles. I will send you, and Henri, with some of my men. You can deliver Henri to the hands of the French.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head slowly. “I’m not playing this game, Domingo. You won’t let him go.”

“I will. Because you will give me your word that you’ll return here, to my galley, and serve me as you do him.”

d'Artagnan stares at him. “I’ve told you, I won’t soldier for Spain.”

“Not soldier, not Spain. Me. Be my man as you are his. Buy his freedom, his return to nobility, with your honour.”

“Don’t,” Louis says from the other side of the room.

“Silence, little man,” Domingo says without looking at him.

“You would take my word?”

“I’ve seen your honour. A man like you does not stop at the borders of a country. If you give me your word I believe you will keep it. When you return you will serve as a guard, not a slave. No chains.”

“Don’t,” Louis says again. “You are my man, Charles, not his.”

“Silence,” Domingo repeats. Louis starts to protest and Domingo says flatly, “After the rod comes the cat, Henri. Do you wish Charles to taste it? Men die under it.”

“I won’t be much use to you dead,” d'Artagnan says, mind racing. Domingo can’t possibly really mean this, can he?

“As much use as you are without your word. Charles, you were not meant to sit on a bench and pull an oar, and that is all that awaits you here. I retire from my service soon, I leave this galley behind. Your next captain will not be so indulgent as I. My offer is genuine, and short lived. Live as my man, or die as a slave. That is your choice.”

“My choice is to keep my oath or break it,” d'Artagnan says softly.

“Perhaps. That depends on what you consider your oath to entail. No more talking, Charles, until I say you may.” Standing, he added, “If you speak to him, Henri, he will be flogged. Do you understand?”

“Yes, senor,” Louis said evenly. “But I will tell you. He will not take your offer.”

“I think, to see you safe, he will do almost anything. Consider your options carefully, Charles. I will return for your answer.” He unlocks d'Artagnan’s chain, locking it back with much more slack. “Sit on the floor if it’s easier for you.”

d'Artagnan waits until he’s gone to slide off the bench and sitting on the floor, leaning on the bench. He buries his head in folded arms, trying to sort through his thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is flogging used as punishment in this chapter.

The guards start moving the slaves back to the benches while the sun’s still up. d’Artagnan feels his heart sink as he’s moved back to his place. It’s too early; the others won’t be ready yet. If the ship casts off…

The ship casts off.

Rowing is very quickly intolerable. d'Artagnan can’t stop the moans on every stroke of the oar; for once Louis is carrying him, not the other way around. The guards seem to be aware that he has fallen out of favour with Domingo. The jeers and taunts are harsher than normal, and every guard who passes them knocks against d'Artagnan. Eventually Louis climbs over him and makes him slide inwards, sitting defiantly on the edge of the bench, between him and the guards.

d'Artagnan focuses so intently on the act of rowing that he doesn’t realise they’ve stopped until Louis pries his hands from the oar. He’s a little more aware by the time Domingo arrives, enough to know that the other slaves are gone again and Louis is pressed against him, holding him up.

Domingo brings water. d'Artagnan almost chokes on it before he gets himself under control, sipping as slowly as he can manage.

“Have you decided?” Domingo asks.

d'Artagnan passes the dipper to Louis, wiping his chin. “I would be your guard?”

“You would.”

“You’ve never even seen him fight,” Louis protests.

“Nobles do not keep personal guards who can’t fight, Henri,” Domingo points out. “And it doesn’t matter. Fighting can be taught, but not a heart like his.”

d'Artagnan shifts. This is it; last chance to turn back.

One look at Louis and he knows he can’t. If deserting the Musketeers is the price of the king’s safety, he’ll pay it without hesitation. “You will not deliberately set me against Frenchmen or against French interests. That’s my condition.”

Louis very nearly speaks, but he catches himself in time.

“As long as you do not allow anyone free reign simply because they are French,” Domingo agrees.

d'Artagnan shakes his head quietly. “No one will harm you while I can stop it. That is my oath.”

“I accept,” Domingo says solemnly. “Tomorrow you will ride with two of my men to the border. You can hand Henri over to the first patrol you see.”

“He can’t ride,” Louis protests. “He can barely sit.”

“He’s welcome to stay here and leave you to my men.”

“I’ll ride,” d'Artagnan says quickly.

“You may change your mind shortly. Tell me, Henri, did you attempt to leave your bench today?”

“No,” Louis says, and then, more panicked, “No. I moved sides, that’s all. We didn’t miss a stroke.”

“Leaving your assigned seat,” Domingo says with a sigh. “You were warned, Henri. After the rod, the cat.”

“What’s the point of this, Domingo?” d'Artagnan asks wearily. “You got what you want, and he’s leaving tomorrow. Why do this to him?”

“The point isn’t him, Charles. The point is you. Do you come or do I have you dragged?”

“I’ll come.”

“Charles –“

“Careful, Henri,” Domingo says over him. “You’ve been told. Speak to him again and the lashes are doubled.”

“Men die under the cat!”

“Then you best keep quiet.”

“I’ll come,” d'Artagnan repeats when Domingo looks at him again.

“Good.” Domingo unlocks the chains, rising to his feet. “Come. You too, Henri.”

“Domingo –“

“Captain,” he says, almost gently. “You are my man now, and I am your captain.”

“Captain,” d'Artagnan repeats obediently. “Why does he need to come?”

“My guards don’t question me anymore than my slaves do, and you’re not a guard yet. Come.”

d'Artagnan waves Louis to follow him. He doesn’t have a choice, not really. He has nothing left to bargain with.

He takes the gag without protest. Domingo orders Louis to tie it in place. The king’s hands are shaking so badly d'Artagnan has to help him; he squeezes Louis’ hand briefly as he lets go. Someone chains his hands, someone drags him to the post and chains him up, high on his toes and tight against the pole.

“The cat will break skin,” Domingo announces. “So we will douse you between hits, to prevent infection.”

d'Artagnan fists his hands helplessly. Whip on wet skin will hurt badly enough, but salt…

“No counting this time,” Domingo finishes. “This ends when I say it does. Begin!”

 

d'Artagnan doesn’t remember most of it, later. He knows that he begged for them to stop the water; he knows that Louis, at one point, tried to throw himself over d'Artagnan to protect him and had to be dragged away. Everything else is lost in a void of pain and helplessness that he shies away from thinking about.

The guards put him on a horse to take Louis to the border, and that’s a whole new kind of torture. The third time he nearly falls off Louis begs – begs! – to be allowed to ride with him. They guards agree, more out of concern for their timetable than anything else, and Louis scrambles up behind d'Artagnan.

“I’ll try not to hurt you,” he murmurs.

“Just keep me on the horse,” d'Artagnan answers. There’s no possible way to do it without hurting him, but with Louis keeping him on, he can concentrate on controlling the pain.

They find a border patrol late in the evening. One of the guards catches d'Artagnan’s arm as he slides down from his horse. “You go talk, then come back. Then we let him go. Understand?”

That puts paid to his half formed plan of escape. He’s too worn out to really be upset, though. He just nods and limps towards the French line.

“Hold!” someone shouts, and he stops obediently, hands out.

“I’m unarmed!”

“State your name!”

d'Artagnan glances back. The guards are still in earshot; he can see the pistol gleaming just behind Louis’ head. “May I approach?”

There’s a scuffle on the French side and a young man approaches, sword in hand but not raised. d'Artagnan blinks when he recognises him; he’s a Musketeer recruit, they’ve sparred together more than once. He gestures _silence_ and the man nods almost imperceptibly.

“That is you,” he breathes when he’s close enough not to be overheard. “You look terrible. Let me help you.”

“No, Thierry, I can’t stay. Listen very carefully and don’t react.” Thierry nods briefly and d'Artagnan continues “Louis is with me. They don’t know who he is and they’ll release him to you, but I have to go back with them. That’s the deal.”

“You’re injured, d'Artagnan. You need care.”

“I’ll get it. They want me alive. Louis _has_ to get back to France, that’s more important than anything.”

“We heard the others missed you,” Thierry murmurs.

d'Artagnan swallows. “Yes. They missed us.”

“Charles!” one of the guards shouts impatiently. d'Artagnan startles, and immediately has to bite back a groan.

“Just get him back to Paris,” he says quietly. “Make this worth something.”

“We’ll come for you. I swear it. _Stay alive_.”

“No.” He smiles painfully. “Tell them to forget me. Don’t waste any more time.” Half turning, he calls “Henri!”

“Yes,” Louis says immediately.

“This is Thierry. He’s going to take you home.” Thierry’s looking at him oddly, but he doesn’t speak.

“Don’t do this,” Louis pleads.

d'Artagnan ignores it, glancing at Thierry before limping back to the guards. One of them gets him back on a horse, and only then do they let Louis go. d'Artagnan watches until Thierry gets a hand on him, hurrying him back to the French lines.

The guard swings up behind him, whips the horse into motion, and d'Artagnan gives up, letting himself slide into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Domingo has just under five months left to serve on the galley. He uses the time, once d'Artagnan is mobile, to get him trained. He’d taken d'Artagnan’s weapons from the Lemaitres; d'Artagnan isn’t allowed to keep them, but Domingo likes to see him practise, so he spends hours working through forms while a guard stands nearby with a pistol. d'Artagnan himself isn’t allowed firearms at all.

The only advantage the guard quarters have over the slave hold is that the guard doors lock from the inside only. Ominously, d'Artagnan’s cubicle – and only his; he’s checked – is studded with the eyebolts used to secure the slaves. He spends as little time there as possible.

The guards hate him for where he came from. The slaves hate him for where he is now, though he’s rarely in contact with them. Out of sheer self preservation, he spends as much time with Domingo as he can, learning Spanish and how to sail and anything else he can. He’s never worked a ship, and the others never explain anything, but he learns by watching.

Domingo tries having him deal with the slaves, but they quickly learn that he won’t touch them unless he has to. There’s a near riot before the other guards get them back under control.

“Why didn’t you stop them?” Domingo demands later.

“I won’t hurt them.”

“They’re slaves, Charles.”

“ _I_ am a slave.” He lifts one wrist, holding it between them until he’s sure he’s made his point.

Domingo kept his word; d'Artagnan is not shackled any more. Instead he wears thick metal cuffs on each wrist and ankle. Small loops in the cuffs mean that he can very quickly be tied down, and he’s very aware of it.

“You’re mine. They’re ship slaves. Worth nothing.”

“I won’t hurt them,” d'Artagnan says evenly. “You can put me back on the benches or beat me or anything you want, but you won’t make me hurt men I _know_ were captured and forced into this. They are no less men than I am.”

Domingo studies him. “And what would you do if they broke free and mutinied?”

“I would defend you to the death, Captain. That’s my oath.”

He half expects Domingo to put him aside, but he only smiles. “Perhaps we should keep you away from the slaves, then.”

Since that day, d'Artagnan has only worked on deck.

A month or so after Louis’ release, the other guards abruptly ramp up their mistreatment of him. Every time they walk past him they hit or shove or trip him up; the food is usually gone by the time he gets there, and his work is mysteriously undone when he turns his back. If Domingo knows this is happening, he doesn't say anything about it. d'Artagnan keeps his head down, takes the hits, redoes his work, and eats whatever Domingo offers him during their meetings.

They hit a storm one evening. d'Artagnan's skilled enough by now to know what to do, and the others are too busy to pay any attention to him. Sails reeled in and supplies lashed down, he heads for the cabin with the others.

Someone grabs him from behind, twisting, shoving him against the mast. Someone else winds rope quickly through his cuffs. d'Artagnan yanks at them, but he's too late; the knots are tied off.

"Ooops!" someone says into his ear. Someone bounces his head off the mast – not enough to really hurt him, but enough to make him dizzy for a moment – and by the time he focuses, the deck is empty. There'll be someone up at the wheel, and probably someone else on lookout, but they won't help him.

It takes three hours, with fingers increasingly numbed by rain and salt water, before the ropes finally fall away. d'Artagnan doesn't even bother trying the cabin door; he just stumbles across to where some of the crates are lashed down and worms his way inbetween them. It's wet, cold, and extremely uncomfortable, but he's off his feet at least. He falls into a half doze, waking when the seas calm again. The morning watch wander onto deck and he shoves between them to get down below and into his cubicle.

He doesn't sleep again – there's no point, Domingo will be calling for him soon – just sits on his pallet, thinking. There are three guards in particular leading the bullying. If he only had his sword, he could take them all out with no trouble. Domingo's guards tend to be brutes rather than skilled.

"Sword," he murmurs, and smiles.

 

Some of the guards carry crossbows. d'Artagnan goes to Domingo with a request to learn the weapon.

"You can't shoot?" Domingo asks.

"I can shoot a pistol, or a musket. I've never tried a crossbow." He shrugs at Domingo's look. "You said I could learn."

"Yes, I did," he agrees. "Very well. I will arrange it. d'Artagnan? No accidents."

d'Artagnan bows without answering, and Domingo lets him go. d'Artagnan's almost sure now he knows what's happening, and at least suspects his plan.

The guard assigned to teach him is rude and easily irritated. d'Artagnan ignores everything except the actual instructions, and within a couple of days he's sinking bolts consistently into the top of the mast. He has to climb up and retrieve them every time, and his teacher purposely picks the hardest parts to get to, but that doesn't bother him.

A week after his night on the mast, d'Artagnan is practising when he sees one of his tormenters cross the deck. Fumbling the crossbow, he looses a bolt that catches a fold of the man's shirt, pinning him to the mast, leaving him completely unharmed but trapped in place.

"Ooops!" d'Artagnan calls across the deck.

Domingo has his hands caned, but it's worth it.

 

d'Artagnan stops taking the abuse. Anyone who pushes him or kicks at him is pushed or kicked just as hard; if the food's gone when he gets down there, he takes some from a random crewman; the one time three of them try to attack him, he puts them down inside twenty seconds and continues with his work. Neither man is seriously injured, not enough to keep them from work, but they'll be very sore for a few days. When they complain to Domingo he shrugs, cites lack of witnesses, and sends them back to work.

It earns him respect – or fear, possibly, but either way, the bullying trails off. None of these men are ever going to be friendly, or even cordial, but they aren’t actively trying to hurt him, and that’s enough for him.

Five months since Louis was released, d'Artagnan arrives at Domingo’s estate.

None of the guards from the ship accompany them – they’re attached to the ship, he learns, not to Domingo – so it’s only the two of them on the journey. Domingo lets him free during the day, but at night he loops a chain through one of d'Artagnan’s cuffs and locks it to a tree. d'Artagnan doesn’t bother protesting it.

He can’t quite decide why he’s still bothering. Louis is free now, and he’s facing a lifetime of servitude to a man he feels no respect for. He can’t understand why he’s still playing along.

He doesn't expect the others to come for him. There's no trail, and he told them not to; Louis can't send more than one or two into Spain, and they could search all their lives and not find him. He doesn't expect a chance to run, either. Domingo's too careful for that.

There are only a few servants and a handful of guards when they arrive, though the numbers quickly rise. d'Artagnan finds himself serving as some kind of combination of bodyguard and manservant and confidante. His room is next to Domingo's, his meals are the same as Domingo's, he rides out with Domingo and walks the grounds with Domingo and stands at his shoulder when he meets with his peasants. His Spanish is almost perfect now, though he'll never rid himself of his accent and doesn't bother trying.

When one of the guards pushes an old woman waiting to see Domingo, d'Artagnan helps her up and escorts her to Domingo himself. When he finds the groom with one of the kitchen girls and hears her crying, he beats the man until he can't walk and takes over his duties until Domingo finds a replacement. When a young man brandishes a dagger at them while they're out riding, he disarms him with just enough force to keep from hurting him and then makes sure his complaints are heard anyway.

Domingo punishes him for taking matters into his own hands with the groom, but he doesn't comment on the other incidents. After the incident with the young man, he extracts a promise from d'Artagnan that he will never use a weapon on Domingo, and not on the other guards or servants unless they're threatening him, and then allows him to wear his sword and main gauche again. There's no sign of his pistol, and he doesn't ask.

"If I'd come to you about the groom?" d'Artagnan asks, settling his belt into place.

"He'd have been dismissed and the girl looked after," Domingo tells him. "I don't tolerate that in my house. But you cannot dispense justive on your own. You're my bodyguard, not my seneschal."

"Noted." d'Artagnan draws the sword, testing the balance briefly.

Domingo is looking at him oddly when he looks up, and he frowns. "What?" Domingo raises an eyebrow, and he amends "What, _Captain_."

"I wonder why you stay."

"I gave you my oath."

He gestures briefly. "Not _stay_. But your – ah, words, they are difficult. I expected your presence, and your obedience. I expected you would do your duty. I did not expect your – participation. Your engagement. Not completely."

d'Artagnan nods, sheathing his sword. "It's not in me to give up, Domingo. This isn't the life I want, but it's what I have."

“I see.” Domingo takes a step back. “If you see evidence of harm among my staff again, I expect you to tell me. You lay no hand on anyone unless it’s to protect me. Yes?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good. I leave it to you to practice, I expect you always ready to fight.”

“Yes, Captain.”

He stalks off. d'Artagnan lets himself breathe for a moment before following. Permissive Domingo might be, but if d'Artagnan isn’t close at hand when he’s wanted, there’ll be trouble.

The servants seem divided in their opinions of him. Everyone knows, of course, that he’s nothing but a jumped up French galley slave, and when he first arrived some of them delighted in spitting out strings of fast paced Spanish and laughing when he couldn’t follow it. Nowadays that doesn’t work so well, of course, but they’ve found other, minor ways to make his life miserable.

After the incident with the groom, the men seem to hate him more and the girls all but worship him. The kitchen staff slip him treats when Domingo isn’t looking, and the maid who cleans all the bedrooms swaps out his rough blanket for a better, more comfortable one and makes sure his clothes are cleaned. The girl he’d protected stumbles through a speech thanking him and promising him anything he wants; when he realizes she thinks he’s claimed her for his own use he gets very, very angry, but he sends her away as kindly as he can, extracting a promise from her to let him know if anything like that happens again.

Over the next month and a half he systematically stops three more attacks, two on the maids and one on the scullery boy. Each one earns him some form of punishment for interfering beyond the scope of his authority; each time he leaves the offending men alive and essentially unharmed and Domingo has them jailed at his pleasure. After the third time four of the remaining male staff jump him. d'Artagnan defends himself exactly as much as he needs to and no more; when Domingo is told he punishes everyone and then dismisses the attackers. He has d'Artagnan sit in when he’s hiring new staff and only chooses the ones d'Artagnan believes will work well. He tells everyone, new and old alike, that d'Artagnan now has power to dispense punishment as he sees fit, and warns d'Artagnan in private that if he abuses this power he will look back fondly on the floggings he’s already suffered.

“I know what you must think,” he says wearily, “but I have never tolerated this from my people. My servants are not slaves, they are free people and I do not want to see them harmed.”

“You were away for a long time,” d'Artagnan says neutrally. “The servants who were here probably grew used to making their own rules.”

“And why the girls didn’t come to me? You know this, too?”

d'Artagnan frowns. “They didn’t know how you might react. Some masters would put them out with nothing for daring to complain of such treatment. The boy, especially.”

Domingo looks tired, and old. “I told you I needed people like you. Make my home safe for my people, Charles.”

“Yes, Captain,” d'Artagnan agrees, and it’s the first order he’s been happy to obey.


	6. Chapter 6

Almost a year since arriving at the estate, ten months since being placed in charge of discipline and guard training, d'Artagnan is crossing the grounds when he spies a knot of guards. Curious – he knows for a fact that at least two of them are off duty right now – he alters course to investigate.

The men have surrounded an intruder, and as d'Artagnan approaches one of them draws back a foot and kicks him viciously in the ribs.

“Hey!” d'Artagnan speeds up, catching the guard’s arm and pulling him back. “What are you doing?”

“He broke into the grounds!”

“Then you bring him to Domingo! You don’t attack him!” He glares until the guards fall back a few steps, and then crouches next to the huddled figure on the ground. “Are you hurt?”

The figure stirs, sitting up, and d'Artagnan scrambles backwards in shock.

“About time you got here,” Porthos grunts. “I was about to start hurting people.”

d'Artagnan stares at him numbly for a long time. All of a sudden he’s very aware how he looks, dressed in Spanish style and clearly not mistreated.

One of the guards shifts. “Charles…?”

“Turn him off the estate,” d'Artagnan says, shoving to his feet. “Gently.” To Porthos, in French, he adds, “Don’t resist them. Don’t come back.”

“d'Artagnan…”

“I train them. Don’t resist them. Don’t come back.”

“The others are here!” Porthos shouts as d'Artagnan turns away. “We came for you!”

“Go home,” d'Artagnan says without looking at him.

Porthos resists – d'Artagnan didn’t think he wouldn’t – but there are too many guards for him to get anywhere much. d'Artagnan doesn’t watch, heading for his room.

He should tell Domingo. This is exactly the kind of thing he should tell Domingo. If the others are here, they aren’t going to give up because Porthos collected a few bruises.

Domingo will have them hunted down if he knows they’re here.

d'Artagnan keeps silent.

He’s not surprised, a couple of days later, to find Aramis working in the stables and chatting happily with the stable boy. “Neto, I’m supposed to approve new staff,” he reminds them.

Neto turns, nodding. “He’s only here for a day, Charles, Rey’s wife is sick.”

“No one comes onto the estate I don’t know, Neto. I’m sorry, senor, I’ll escort you out now.”

Aramis nods obligingly, grinning at Neto as he passes over his curry brush and follows d'Artagnan out. Four paces from the door he catches at d'Artagnan’s arm.

“Careful,” d'Artagnan warns him in French. “There are guards around, they’ll stop you if they think you’re hurting me.”

Aramis lets go, very carefully. “What is this, d'Artagnan?”

“Louis made it home?”

“Thierry said you made some kind of deal.”

d'Artagnan gestures around. “My service for his freedom. Domingo kept his part. I have to keep mine.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I swore an oath,” he says softly.

“You didn’t have a choice! An oath extracted by force –“

“I swore an oath, Aramis,” d'Artagnan says again. “I told Thierry, I told Porthos, and I’m telling you. Stop looking for me. I’m bound to Domingo now.”

“You don’t have to –“

“What is this?” Domingo asks from behind them.

d'Artagnan turns, one hand on his sword, and bows. “He came to replace one of the staff, Captain, but I wasn’t informed. I’m sending him away.”

“In French?” Domingo circles them both; d'Artagnan holds himself very still. Beside him, Aramis is watching warily, clearly not sure what’s going on. “Who is he, Charles?”

“I knew him in Paris,” d'Artagnan says easily.

“In what capacity?”

“He served my master.”

“Ah, the good Henri,” Domingo murmurs. “His name?”

d'Artagnan flounders for a moment. “Rene.”

“Rene,” Domingo repeats. “Do you still serve Henri, Rene?”

“I do,” Aramis agrees warily.

“You are here on his behalf?”

“He wants – Charles – back.”

“But Charles is my man now.”

“He was taken unlawfully and forced into this agreement,” Aramis says firmly.

“He bought your master’s freedom with his service. Charles, your opinion?”

“I’ve already told him to leave,” d'Artagnan says quietly.

“Yes, I heard. Thierry and Porthos. Who are they?”

“Thierry was the guard on the border when I returned Henri to France.”

“And Porthos?”

d'Artagnan is silent. Domingo sighs, turning to Aramis. “Porthos is?”

“Another of our master’s men,” Aramis says, clearly taking his cue from d'Artagnan’s honesty.

Domingo stops, looking at d'Artagnan. “When did you tell him this?”

d'Artagnan closes his eyes. “Two days ago.”

“Two days,” Domingo repeats. “Two days ago you saw this man, and said nothing of it to me.” He waves abruptly and several guards converge on them. “Bring them both,” he orders. “Let Rene see what will happen if he tries to take Charles from me.”

Aramis shouts as the guards approach, drawing a dagger he’s hidden somewhere; he catches Domingo’s arm, spinning him into his arms and holding the dagger loosely near his throat. The men stop, wary; d'Artagnan eyes the dagger and the distance to the gate and shakes his head. “Put it down, Rene.”

“We’re leaving,” Aramis says firmly.

“I can’t let you hurt him. Put it _down_.”

Aramis stares at him, dagger still firmly in hand. “What are you doing?”

“I gave my oath. Let him go or I will make you let him go.”

“Oath?”

“No one harms him while I can stop it. Not even you.”

“He _hurts_ you.”

“He’s my master; that’s his right. Don’t make me stop you, because I will. Just let him go.”

Aramis studies him a moment longer before offering him the dagger. d'Artagnan takes it and immediately passes it to another guard; Domingo rips himself away from Aramis, glaring. “Come,” he snaps at the nearest guard, and they surround Aramis, forcing him to follow.

Domingo leads the group to the blacksmith’s forge. Aramis is pinned against a beam and held there, forced to watch as d'Artagnan stands unresisting while a guard strips his cuffs off. Domingo produces a new set, opening them wide so that Aramis and d'Artagnan can see the blunt spikes inside. Not sharp enough to draw blood, they will continuously irritate his skin, leaving him sore all the time with no way to relieve it. Domingo makes a point of twisting them once they’re locked on, ostensibly to test the fit; d'Artagnan doesn’t react, looking vaguely over his shoulder somewhere.

“How did you find him?” Domingo asks Aramis, idly twisting the cuffs again.

“We knew he was gone from the galleys.” Aramis’ voice is tight. “We heard talk that a galley slave had been put in a position of power, was cleaning up an estate and stopping abuses of power.”

“And you thought that was Charles?”

“Most honourable person I know.”

“Yes,” Domingo agrees, stepping into d'Artagnan’s eye line. “He is honourable. Three days, Charles, and I’ll replace your cuffs.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Unless I see any sign of these men around. Then your time increases by three days for every time I see one of them. Understand?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good.” To another guard, he adds, “Charles is missing his practise time. Take him down to the yard and spar with him. Come along, Rene, you can watch.”

d'Artagnan almost protests, but he knows it’s not worth it. Louis had to watch him flogged; now Aramis has to watch him spar when every movement will abrade his skin.

He doesn’t look at Aramis as he’s led out.

The guards can’t exactly go easy on him, not with Domingo watching, but they do their best. d'Artagnan’s well aware that he’s not having to move as much as usual, doesn’t have to extend too high or too low. It’s not much, but it’s something, and he’s grateful for it as the afternoon drags on.

Aramis tries to protest, at first, or to call encouragement to him. d'Artagnan doesn’t know how Domingo made him stop – there’s no sign of violence when he’s finally called, shaking with fatigue and pain, to stand in front of them – but Aramis is tight lipped and silent.

“Is there anything that you wish to say, Charles?” Domingo asks politely.

“Go home,” d'Artagnan tells Aramis. “Protect Henri. Forget me.”

“Charles,” Aramis protests softly.

“Guards,” Domingo orders, and three guards hustle Aramis away. “Go about your work, Charles,” he adds, and d'Artagnan withdraws in silence.


	7. Chapter 7

d'Artagnan’s confined to the grounds for the three days. Domingo makes sure he practises every day, and by the time the cuffs are removed he’s raw and sore. Domingo offers him a day free of the cuffs but locked in a small cell in the cellar to recover a little, and he accepts without hesitation. By the end of the day, of course, he’s frustrated at the enclosure and desperate to get out; he suspects that by the end of the next day he’ll be desperate to get the cuffs off again. That was the whole point, he knows, and it bothers him how easily Domingo manipulates him even over something so tiny.

The next day is the last Friday of the month, traditionally the day Domingo hears from his peasants, and d'Artagnan is standing at Domingo’s side when Athos strides in, in full Musketeer uniform.

Domingo tilts his head towards d'Artagnan. “Another of your friends?”

“This is the man I told you about. The man I tried to kill.”

Domingo half turns to look at him. “This man is a Musketeer.”

“Yes.”

“The Musketeers serve the king and the royal family.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan says again, waving one of the guards back when he would have threatened Athos.

Domingo stares at him. “You lied about Henri’s name.”

“It’s the only lie I’ve ever told you.”

“Who was he?”

d'Artagnan glances at Athos, switching to French. “He was Louis of the House of Bourbon.”

“Did you not know who you were hosting, monsieur?” Athos asks, icy politeness in every word.

Domingo is still staring at d'Artagnan. “The king of France,” he says, in French.

“Yes, Captain.”

“No wonder you bought his freedom,” Domingo murmurs, turning to look at Athos. “Your friend Rene told you the cost of your being here, I assume?”

“He did,” Athos agrees. “It won’t apply, though. Charles is leaving with me.”

“Athos,” d'Artagnan says with a sigh.

“You swore an oath to the Musketeers, Charles,” Athos says sharply. “That oath cannot be discarded or superseded. If you refuse to return, you are a deserter to the regiment, and Spain’s treaty with France obliges this man to hand you over.”

d'Artagnan stares at him. He has no idea if that’s true, and he doesn’t know if Domingo does either. He’s afraid it is – he’s always been afraid it is – and Athos isn’t giving him any clues one way or the other.

Domingo studies Athos, fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of his chair. “Charles is an honourable man,” he points out. “He is here to save your king. That is the duty of a Musketeer, is it not?”

“His reasons don’t matter. His obligation was to escape and return. Porthos and Rene both saw him alone and unrestrained on the grounds. He could easily have left. He could have left with Rene a few days ago; instead he protected you and forced Rene to surrender his weapon.”

“Tell me, Charles, what’s the punishment in France for deserters?”

“Firing squad,” d'Artagnan says distantly. Athos is ignoring him, eyes on Domingo.

“Charles is very valuable to me. Why would I release him to you to be executed for something he had no choice over?”

“The treaty demands it. If you refuse I will be forced to go to the magistrate.”

Domingo sits back, steepling his fingers. “I see. And if I simply have my guards take you now?” Athos’ eyes flicker to d'Artagnan, and Domingo shakes his head. “Charles won’t protect you from my men.”

“If your guards take me, Rene and Porthos have orders to return to France and begin diplomatic proceedings from there.”

“Well. Let us test that. Guards.” Two step forward, and he waves them to take Athos. “Send out patrols, find his two comrades and bring them in.”

Athos doesn’t fight back, or protest in any way. He also doesn’t look at d'Artagnan as he’s led out.

Domingo dismisses d'Artagnan without talking to him. d'Artagnan goes back to his room, paces for a while, scares the maid when she comes to straighten up, and eventually gives up and goes down to the cellar.

Athos isn’t restrained, just locked into the small cell. He doesn’t look up when d'Artagnan comes in. d'Artagnan flips a wine skin onto the floor at his feet. “That was foolish.”

“You didn’t leave us much choice.”

“I told you to leave. I don’t know if I can get you out of here now.”

Athos looks up, finally. “Did you think we’d leave you here, d'Artagnan?”

“Charles,” he says instinctively. Athos waves vaguely, and he sighs. “I hoped you would.”

“This man tortures you for fun.”

“For rules.”

Athos scoffs. “This is wrong, d’Ar – Charles.”

“I gave him my oath,” d'Artagnan says tiredly. “I bought Louis’ freedom with it.”

“An oath you are forced into is not a true oath, Charles.”

“It’s my word, Athos. It’s the only thing I have, now.”

Athos studies him for a long time. “His rules will kill you. You know that.”

“When we came here, the male servants used the girls for fun as they pleased,” d'Artagnan says evenly. “I’ve stopped that. If that’s all the good I ever do again, it’s enough.”

“It’s very good,” Athos agrees. “You could save so many more in France.”

“Drink your wine,” d'Artagnan says, turning to leave. “Domingo will probably torture me for giving it to you.”

“Charles?” Athos calls as he reaches the door. “Would you protect me from his men?”

d'Artagnan leaves without answering.

 

Aramis is brought in later that day, also completely unresisting, but Porthos seems to have escaped. Domingo orders Aramis confined in the attic, to keep him away from Athos. He still hasn’t given d'Artagnan any actual orders about the two men, so he feels little guilt at taking a water skin and a heel of bread upstairs.

Aramis is studying the grounds through the window, but he glances up when d'Artagnan comes in. “Athos?”

“Unharmed. Porthos?”

He smiles grimly. “Safer not to tell you, I think.”

“Probably,” d'Artagnan agrees, offering him the bread. Aramis takes it, studying it for a moment. d'Artagnan sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Can we pretend we’ve already had the conversation about how it wasn’t a true oath because I didn’t have any choice, and I don’t have to keep it?”

“As you wish.”

“I’m sorry for the other day. I couldn’t let you hurt him. I didn’t know he’d make you watch all of that.”

“Did he make you practise like that every day?”

He leans against the wall by the door, fiddling with the cuffs. “Was Athos very angry?”

“Angry is putting it rather mildly, I think.” He studies d'Artagnan. “You don’t want this,” he says softly.

“Not in the slightest. But as Athos so kindly pointed out, I am a deserter to the Musketeers. This is all I have, now.”

“You’re not –“ Aramis breaks off, shaking his head and turning away, and d'Artagnan lets himself out, locking the door again behind himself.

Domingo summons him early the next morning. d'Artagnan finds him pacing in the dining room. “You sent for me?”

“If I let them take you, will you go?”

d'Artagnan blinks. “I’m still – I still think of myself as a Musketeer. Louis may be merciful, he knows why I did it.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“If he isn’t, I’ll accept his judgement.”

“And if I don’t let them take you?”

“If you don’t let them take me, I’m still your man, and I’ll serve you as long as I must. But if it violates the treaty, you might not have a choice.”

Domingo stares at him. “If I keep you, and they come for you…”

d'Artagnan shakes his head. “This game is pointless, Domingo.”

“Captain,” he says, but it’s half hearted at best.

“You’ve made your decision,” d'Artagnan continues. “Tell me what it is and I will see it done.”

“If my decision is to kill them?”

d'Artagnan swallows. “ _You will not deliberately set me against Frenchmen._ That was my condition. And if you want your men to kill them, you’ll have to restrain me first. I can’t let you kill them in cold blood, any more than I could let them kill you.”

Domingo smiles humourlessly. “Honour like yours must be a terrible burden, sometimes.”

“Honour like mine has me standing here with you, Captain.”

Domingo sighs, shouting for a guard. “Release the Musketeers. Turn Charles over to them. Provide them supplies. We must honour the treaty with our French brothers.”

d'Artagnan sways, eyes closed as he gropes for the nearest chair. _Release_.

“You wouldn’t have stayed,” Domingo says, and he sounds regretful. “Sooner or later, you’d have run. This way I can pretend it’s my decision. Go and get your things.”

Athos and Aramis are waiting in the hall when d'Artagnan comes back down, dressed in the sturdiest of his clothes and wearing his weapons belt. Athos halts him, gripping one wrist and studying it before looking up at Domingo. “I want these off.”

“As you wish,” Domingo agrees, waving to a guard. d'Artagnan gives his pack to Aramis and follows the guard out to the forge, where the cuffs are quickly struck from him. He feels oddly light as he goes back to rejoin the others. Aramis is clearly itching to examine his wrists, but he makes no move towards him, just slings his pack over his own shoulder.

“I’m sure the king will be grateful for your co operation,” Athos is saying to Domingo.

“Perhaps he’ll show mercy to the most loyal man I’ve ever known,” Domingo replies. “He was never anything but your king’s man.”

He glances at d'Artagnan, who shifts. “Pay attention to your servants,” he murmurs.

“It won’t happen again. You have my word, if that means anything to you.”

d'Artagnan inclines his head awkwardly, turning to follow Athos out of the house.


	8. Chapter 8

They’re mostly silent for a while. Athos keeps them walking for half a day or so before stopping. Aramis immediately reaches for d'Artagnan’s wrists, scowling at the thick scars and raw skin and pulling a poultice and bandages out of his bag. d'Artagnan lets him do it, one eye on Athos as he paces the edge of the clearing.

“Ankles?” Aramis asks when he’s finished. d'Artagnan blinks at him, not quite sure what’s going on; Aramis seems to take that as permission, urging him to sit with his back to a tree and repeating the treatment on his ankles.

"Can he ride?" Athos asks as Aramis finishes up.

"Ride," d'Artagnan repeats.

"Porthos is meeting us," Aramis tells him.

"Porthos – Porthos is gone. The men couldn't find him."

"The men couldn't find him," Athos agrees, "but he isn't gone anywhere."

"Did you think any of us would leave you again?" Aramis asks gently.

d'Artagnan blinks at him, unable to find an answer. Things are happening too quickly; he can't follow, can't focus.

Aramis seems to read some of this on his face. His eyes sadden and he pats d'Artagnan gently on the arm. "Rest a little. Are you hungry or thirsty?"

Simple questions; he can handle those. "No, thank you." Aramis pats him again, pushing to his feet and drawing Athos to one side.

Aramis said 'rest'. He didn't say 'sleep'. d'Artagnan lets his head tip to one side, watching them through half closed eyes.

"...shock," Aramis is saying softly. "We need to be careful. He's not as we remember him."

"He brought me wine," Athos murmurs. "He said Domingo would likely punish him for it, but he did it anyway. He's not broken, Aramis."

"Not broken," Aramis agrees, "but damaged in ways we can't see."

"Can he be fixed?"

Aramis looks away. "I should check the supplies. We can eat while we're waiting."

They separate then. d'Artagnan can't watch both of them, and he can't turn to watch Aramis without drawing attention, so he focuses on Athos instead. He's probably the more dangerous of the two, anyway.

Athos lights a fire, carefully tending it far past the point where it needs care. Aramis comes and goes a couple of times and finally crouches beside d'Artagnan. "Are you awake?"

d'Artagnan sits up a little, eyeing the bread and cheese in Aramis' hand. "I'm not hungry."

Aramis studies him for a moment, lowering his voice so Athos can't hear. "If I ordered you to eat, would you?"

d'Artagnan struggles with it for a moment before reluctantly admitting "Yes. But I'd rather you didn't."

"I won't. Any order?"

"I have – there are things Domingo never had me do. So probably not those. And I can refuse if I'm concentrating, big things. I wouldn’t have hurt you even if he ordered me, not unless you were attacking him. But something small like eating – there was no point in fighting those ones. I just stopped."

"I have to tell Athos," Aramis says apologetically. His hand is warm on d'Artagnan’s shoulder. "He needs to know what he can and can't say."

"Yes."

Aramis narrows his eyes. "Can you disagree with me?"

d'Artagnan rattles off the foulest Spanish curses he knows, tailoring them to Aramis' person and habits. Aramis is grinning when he winds down. "No problems there, then." 

"I was allowed to speak up, mostly."

"And he listened?"

"Mostly. I just didn't make the decisions."

Aramis nods, offering the bread again. "Are you sure you're not hungry?"

"I'm sure. Thank you."

"I would like you to tell me when you're hungry."

He's trying so hard. d'Artagnan nods, reminding himself to claim hunger later in the day.

He can't tell Aramis he hasn't felt hungry since Paris, that he thinks that part of him is broken. He can't be broken. He has to be what they want.

Aramis has cajoled Athos away a little. d'Artagnan lowers his head, plucking aimlessly at the grass beside him. He doesn't think Aramis is fooled, but he doesn't say anything about it.

"You need to be careful when you talk to d'Artagnan," he murmurs.

"Careful of what?"

"He's..." Aramis glances at d'Artagnan; his eyes drop to the ground and stay there, focusing on the grass he’s destroying, trying not to tense at the feeling of being watched. "Orders," Aramis says finally.

"What about orders?"

"He's obeying them."

Athos is silent. Aramis continues "He thinks it will only be simple orders, and I'm sure it will wear off as he spends time with us. But we should be careful."

"Simple orders," Athos repeats.

"Eat that. Sit there. Ride with us for the rest of the day – and I don't think he'll tell us if he's hurting. We had enough trouble teaching him to do that the first time around."

"Will he tell us if we order him to?" Athos asks mildly.

"It doesn't matter, because we aren't giving him orders."

They're silent for several seconds. Finally, Athos nods. "I will try to remember."

"Good. When will Porthos get here?"

Athos glances upwards. "Not for some time yet. Closer to dusk."

"I'll go to meet him."

"Sit for a while," Athos tells him. "You've been busy for some time. And eat that bread, don't keep carrying it around."

Aramis glances around and then comes back to crouch beside d'Artagnan. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

"If you like."

He shakes his head slightly. "I would like to know what you want."

d'Artagnan swallows. "Sit," he says, hoping that he sounds halfway normal.

Aramis' smile convinces him he's doing the right thing.


	9. Chapter 9

Aramis leaves the camp after a while, leaves d'Artagnan alone with Athos. d'Artagnan keeps his head down, watching as Athos roams randomly around the clearing. There’s an invisible barrier three feet from him that Athos never passes, never coming near him.

“Are you hurt?” Athos asks suddenly.

“Hurt,” d'Artagnan repeats, confused all over again.

“I should have asked already, my apologies.”

“I’m not hurt.”

Athos eyes him. “Your wrists?”

d'Artagnan looks down, plucking at the edge of a bandage. “They don’t hurt.”

“Don’t pull at your bandages.” d'Artagnan’s hands fall and Athos winces. “My apologies.”

“For what?” 

“Giving you an order.”

“You always gave me orders.”

Athos doesn’t seem sure how to answer that. “Do you need anything?”

d'Artagnan hesitates. “I’m thirsty.”

Athos turns away, digging through the supplies for a water skin and finally crossing the invisible line. “You should take it slowly,” he says, so awkward that d'Artagnan wants to beg him to stop. Orders are better than this.

“Thank you,” he says instead, making sure that Athos can see him taking sips. “Where’s Aramis?”

“He went to meet Porthos.”

“To tell him about me.”

Athos doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t agree either, only holds d'Artagnan’s gaze until d'Artagnan can’t bear it any more and looks away. “I can manage,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to manage alone.”

Aramis and Porthos appear on the other side of the clearing, each leading two horses. “There you are,” Athos says, turning away from d'Artagnan.

“Here we are,” Porthos agrees.

“Don’t settle. We’ll get some distance before we stop for the night.” Athos starts gathering up their belongings, slinging them onto the horses.

Aramis comes to crouch next to d'Artagnan, nodding approvingly at the water skin. “Can I check your bandages before we go?”

“I wish you’d stop asking,” d'Artagnan murmurs.

He doesn’t really mean Aramis to hear, but he’s not making much effort to keep it quiet either, and he’s not surprised when Aramis nods. “We’re all trying to find the best way.”

“Athos isn’t much good at not giving orders.”

Aramis smiles, bending his head over d'Artagnan’s wrists. “True. Were you always wearing the cuffs, d'Artagnan?”

“Not the ones you saw. Normal ones. Yes.”

“All the time?”

“I was a slave, Aramis.” Aramis’ hand jerks on his wrist, and d'Artagnan continues quietly, “I know what you saw, and I know what Domingo said. He always called me his man, as though it was better. But I was still a slave. All the time.”

Aramis rewraps his wrist in silence. “I’m going to look at your ankles.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“They need tending, d'Artagnan.”

“I’ve been fine so far. Besides, what’s the point? We’re going home to have me shot for desertion.”

Aramis rears back, staring at him, and then turns. “ATHOS!”

“What?” Athos answers, startled.

“You didn’t tell him!”

“Tell him what?”

Aramis storms over, glaring at Athos. “He thinks we’re taking him back for execution!”

Athos stares at him for a moment before turning to d'Artagnan. “d'Artagnan…”

“Deserter to the Musketeers,” d'Artagnan says, surprised at their surprise. “You said it.”

Porthos pushes past Athos to crouch by d'Artagnan’s feet, watching him. “That was what you might call a clever ruse, lad. You’re not a deserter; Louis had it recorded that you're on special long term assignment. Treville knows the truth but he’s the only one. The regiment thinks you’re on assignment. We’re going home to go home. Not for anything else.”

“Assignment,” d'Artagnan repeats numbly.

“It was the only way to protect you,” Porthos says. “When we get back to Paris we’ll put it around that you’ve been injured, give you time to heal up. Louis has already pledged you anything you need, for as long as you need it.”

“I don’t understand,” d'Artagnan protests, and he only realises it’s in Spanish when Porthos looks at Aramis for help.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Aramis tells him. “Just – do you understand we are not taking you back for execution?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan says warily. He's not sure he does, but he'll pretend if that's what they want.

“Good. That’s the important thing.” In French, he adds “My I check your ankles now?”

d'Artagnan nods, not quite sure he trusts himself to speak. Athos and Porthos back off, whispering fiercely to each other while Aramis unwraps, checks and rewraps his ankles.

“I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan murmurs as he finishes.

“We should have made a point of telling you.” Aramis doesn’t look up from the bandage. “It never occurred to me that you’d believe us.”

“I did desert.”

Aramis shakes his head. “d'Artagnan, you are the truest Musketeer I have known.” He looks up, and for a moment d'Artagnan can’t understand why he looks so devastated. “Did you truly think we would take you home to your death?”

“It – I deserted,” d'Artagnan says again, because he can’t think of anything else. It’s so clear to him he can’t understand why Aramis is having so much trouble with it. “But I thought…”

“Thought?” Aramis prompts him.

In careful Spanish, d'Artagnan says “I thought, maybe, an accident on the way home. Something quick and painless. I thought – because we were friends before – maybe that was your plan.”

Aramis jerks off his hat, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You’d have ridden right up to the steps of the Louvre with us, wouldn’t you? Right into the noose.”

“What else would I do?” d'Artagnan asks blankly.

“Run.”

“I never intentionally deserted. I won’t now.”

Aramis leans forward to cup d'Artagnan’s cheek gently. “No one will harm you if I have any power to stop it,” he says solemnly. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan says softly. He does. Aramis has never lied to him, not about anything important.

“And we are still your friends now; we never stopped. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Good man.” He glances over his shoulder at the others. “We’ll be going soon.”

“Can I help?”

“There’s not much left to do. Pick a horse. Porthos just bought them so we haven’t chosen yet. Do you want a pistol?”

“No, thank you.” Catching Aramis’ look, he adds, “I can hold a pistol, I can aim and I can fire. But you’re the better shot, and I'd probably need to be told to shoot.”

“If you want one, tell me.”

“I will,” d'Artagnan agrees.

Aramis holds out a hand to help him up and then goes to join the others. d'Artagnan doesn’t bother listening this time, focusing on the horses instead.

He’s murmuring in Spanish, trying to calm one of the mares – these aren’t Musketeer trained and she’s jittery – when Porthos approaches. “You sound like a native.”

“I don’t really. Too much Gascon in my accent.”

“You ain’t forgotten how to deal with horses, anyway.”

d'Artagnan glances at him. “The first month I was on Domingo’s estate, not quite six months after I saw Aramis at the docks, I beat his groom until he couldn’t walk and I took on his duties until a new man was hired.”

“Why?”

“He had a kitchen girl, and she didn’t want to be there.” He absently soothes the horse. “I stopped three more attacks, one on the scullery boy. The men who were left attacked me, and when I put them down they complained me to Domingo…” He trails off, winding one hand into the horse’s mane.

“He punish you?”

“Every time. But he jailed them.” He half shrugs. “Worth it.”

“Was it?”

“Easily.”

“I’m sorry we missed you at the docks. Didn’t realise you were moving in time. Athos wanted to jump on board anyway.”

“He’d have been killed. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

“Year and a half you’ve been here. You think it doesn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t matter _now_.”

“d'Artagnan…”

“Porthos,” d'Artagnan cuts him off. Porthos falls silent, watching him, and d'Artagnan takes a moment to put his thoughts in order. “This year and a half? It was bad, but it’s one tiny part of my life. I’m not going to let it be the most important part. It’s not going to be the thing that defines me. So please. Tell the others – it doesn’t matter. I know you all did your best, I know you’ve been doing your best. How long have you been in Spain?”

“All the time.” d'Artagnan glances at him in surprise, and Porthos grins. "We had to go back a couple of times, report, get more money. Louis has been funding us himself; Rochefort's spitting mad. But we've been here all the time."

"All the time," d'Artagnan breathes, burying his face in the horse's mane. He reaches out blindly and feels Porthos grip his hand tight; he tugs and Porthos follows the pull, letting him tuck their joined hands against his chest.

"Lad, you want the others?" Porthos murmurs.

"No," he says shakily. "Just...stay with me a minute."

"Long as you need," Porthos agrees, leaning slightly against him, warm and solid and there.

They never left. They were in Spain all the time; all the time d'Artagnan was struggling, they were looking for him. Every time he thought about giving up, every time he wanted to stop fighting, every time he almost gave in to Domingo’s demands, they were searching for him and fighting for him and _believing_ in him.

Finally he takes a deep breath, straightening and letting go of Porthos' hand. Porthos moves it only enough to grip the back of his neck, watching carefully. "You right?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"If you need more time, d'Artagnan, we'll wait."

"No. Thank you. I'd like to go home now."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this one. Thanks so much, everyone, for your brilliant comments and suggestions; literally every chapter so far has been altered and amended as you all point out things or suggest ideas. Keep going! There's still time to affect the last chapter! 
> 
> (hugs you all)

They pass the border four days later.

Aramis deals with the border guards while Athos looms behind him and Porthos keeps watch on d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan himself stays silent, dealing with the horses, quieting and calming them.

“Why was Thierry there?” he asks once they’re over the border.

“What?” Athos says absently.

“Thierry. When I brought Louis to the border, Thierry was there. Has he left the Musketeers?”

Porthos shakes his head quickly. “We had people at all the main crossing points.”

“All of them?”

“The King was in Spain,” Athos reminds him. “We couldn’t invade, not without admitting he was missing, but we knew if it was possible at all you’d get him home. Our people were ready to help you.”

“Thierry said you were crippled,” Porthos adds, and his voice is light but d'Artagnan can hear the tension in it.

“That was a bad day,” he agrees, matching the light tone. “But only for a day or two. Thierry’s all right?”

“Walked Louis into the garrison himself. Good lad, that one.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmurs.

Aramis catches his eye. “We tried to keep the border watch going for you. But with Louis back in the palace, the regiment was needed. They couldn’t spare anyone but us.”

“I couldn’t –“ d'Artagnan swallows. “I told Thierry not to.”

“We know,” Aramis agrees brightly. “But we were under royal orders, so we had to come and look anyway.”

d'Artagnan swallows again; Porthos nudges his horse a step or two closer. “d'Artagnan? We were coming for you even if Louis himself told us not to. Nothing would’ve kept us away. You know that.”

“I know,” he agrees, but it’s only a rote answer and he knows they hear it. They ride on in uneasy silence.

Athos has a Musketeer cloak and pauldron for d'Artagnan, but he keeps finding excuses not to put them on until Athos gives up. He does insist on buying a new set of clothes at the first town they pass through, though. d'Artagnan leaves the Spanish style breeches and tunic behind with pleasure.

Aramis is still treating his wrists and ankles twice a day, though he admits they've healed as much as they're likely to. d'Artagnan mostly doesn't notice the rings of scars, though he makes sure they’re hidden at all times; sometimes he almost misses the cuffs. Some movements are more difficult than they used to be, but he's used to working around the cuffs. The scars aren't any harder.

One evening, after a day when d'Artagnan’s been unable to stop himself fiddling with his sleeves, Aramis sits down next to him, asks quietly to look at his wrist, and proceeds to unpick the hem of his cuff and lengthen it. d'Artagnan watches every movement, hyper aware of the needle next to his skin, but when it’s done his smile is sincere and he thanks Aramis honestly.

His sleeves hang halfway down his hands, now, and it’s harder to manage his horse, but it’s worth it. He sees Athos looking at him a couple of times, but he never asks any questions and d'Artagnan doesn’t offer any explanation. 

Two days over the border they camp by a lake. Aramis and Porthos strip off and jump in as soon as the camp's set up. Athos watches with some amusement, finishing off the last couple of jobs.

"You should swim," he tells d'Artagnan. "At least go and dip yourself. You'd feel better being clean."

"I would. You might not."

Athos frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I asked Aramis not to tell you," d'Artagnan murmurs, eyes on the lake. "Because it's all healed anyway; there's nothing to be done."

Athos says nothing. d'Artagnan looks up, suddenly alarmed. "He wanted to tell you. I asked him not to. It's my fault, not his." Aramis had been furious, though he'd tried to hide it when he realised he was unsettling d'Aragnan; d'Artagnan had shamelessly used that guilt to make him promise not to say anything. He couldn't have avoided the floggings, but he doesn't like displaying the evidence, even so.

Aramis had agreed, but only because the whip marks were healed as well as they ever would. Like the scars on his wrists and ankles, they hampered him in certain movements, and like those scars, he was used to working around them. They didn’t stop him fighting; that was all Domingo had cared about.

"No one is in trouble," Athos says, and the edge of impatience in his voice is so familiar d'Artagnan almost smiles. "Louis told us you were flogged."

"Yes. He saw one and knew about another."

“There were more?”

“It wasn’t Domingo’s preferred method of punishment, because I needed time to recover afterwards. But then I would keep breaking the rules.”

“Beating his staff, as I understand it,” Athos agrees.

“They deserved it.”

“I have no doubt.”

They watch the other two for several moments; Aramis dunks Porthos and cheers gleefully, but Porthos twists underneath him, knocking his feet out from under him.

“May I look?”

d'Artagnan doesn’t answer out loud. He doesn’t hesitate, either. He’d known this would happen at some point, and it’s not worth fighting Athos over even if he thought he could. He just shucks his jerkin and lifts his tunic over his head. Athos stands, coming to crouch behind him.

Aramis is watching them from the water. Porthos follows his gaze and starts to wade out to join them, but Aramis says something fast and low and Porthos stops where he is.

Athos touches d'Artagnan’s back gently, tracing a scar so lightly he barely feels it. “Pain?”

“Not any more, no.”

“None of them became infected?” Athos traces another – or maybe the same one; d'Artagnan’s never seen them, after all. He can feel them, if he thinks about it, but he has no idea how they look, how they’re shaped.

He twitches away from Athos’ touch; he doesn’t lower his tunic yet, though he badly wants to. “Domingo used to have his men splash salt water over them between each stroke.”

Athos breathes in sharply. “Why?” he asks, voice carefully controlled.

“It made me scream,” d'Artagnan says flatly. “And there was no risk of infection. Athos…”

Athos shifts away, returning to his original spot. Down on the beach Porthos and Aramis are whispering fiercely.

“I’m not ashamed of them,” d'Artagnan murmurs, tugging his tunic back down with relief he knows Athos can see. He leaves the jerkin off.

“Good.”

“But I won’t be displaying them quite yet.”

“That is your choice.” Athos hesitates. “Did you want to swim, or dip? We could – occupy ourselves, while you do.”

“I don’t want to dip. Thank you.” He lies back in the sand, draping one arm over his eyes, and pretends to doze while the others talk about him from just slightly too far away for him to hear properly.

Aramis wakes him to eat, and if Athos seems preoccupied, that’s not exactly unusual. He’s taking the first watch, and d'Artagnan is still awake long after the other two are snoring, curled on his side and watching the fire.

“d'Artagnan?” Athos murmurs.

“Mmm.”

“You said not his preferred method of punishment.”

d'Artagnan counts to five. “Athos…”

“We watch for Aramis when there’s snow on the ground. We watch for Porthos when we’re dealing with slavers. And you’ve spent more than your share of time dragging me out of inns and taverns. I need to know what you need.”

d'Artagnan counts again. “Confinement, mostly, or forced labour in the fields. You know about the cuffs, but that was more for Aramis’ sake than mine – once, when we were still at sea, he had my hands caned and made me spend the next day up in the rigging. I don’t think you’re likely to recreate any of it.”

“Confinement,” Athos repeats.

“That wasn’t the first time I was in your cell. I’m tired, Athos.”

“Why did he cane your hands?”

d'Artagnan rolls over, putting his back to the group. “I shot a crossbow bolt at a guard who’d been bullying me. Good night, Athos.”

 

Athos doesn’t push them – he’s sending messages ahead of them every time they pass through a town of any size – and it’s almost three weeks before they approach Paris.

They reign in some distance from the city. Athos looks at d'Artagnan. “What do you want to do?”

“What?”

“Louis will want to see you. But we can go to the garrison if you’d rather, first.”

“Louis wants to see me,” he repeats. “No, let’s do that.”

Aramis leans across to catch his eye. “He’s not looking to punish you for deserting.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan says neutrally.

“No one harms you while I can stop it.”

“Y – no.”

Treville is waiting at the city gates with an honour guard, but Aramis rides ahead to talk to him and by the time the others reach them the guards have vanished and it’s just Treville. “Welcome home, d'Artagnan,” he says as they pull up again.

“Thank you, cap –“ d'Artagnan cuts himself off.

Treville nods as though he hasn’t noticed anything. “Where are we going, gentlemen?”

“To the palace,” Athos tells him, and Treville turns to head in that direction.

Athos immediately stares at d'Artagnan until he says tightly, “Domingo wanted me always to call him Captain. I didn’t think – I didn’t know it would be a problem until now.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Aramis starts to answer and then stops. d'Artagnan is glad. He knows the others believe he won’t be in trouble for deserting, but he can’t bring himself to even think it yet.

Rochefort is there when they dismount in the palace courtyard, arms folded across his chest. “Back from your assignment?” he asks.

“Obviously,” Athos answers on d'Artagnan’s behalf. “Excuse us, Rochefort, the king is expecting us and we can’t keep him waiting.”

“No, no, naturally,” Rochefort agrees. “We’ll catch up later, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan inclines his head without answering, following the others into the building. “What’s going on?” he murmurs.

“He knows you’re in favour and he’s trying to get at you,” Porthos says over his shoulder. “Ignore him.”

"I'm in favour?"

"Highly." Athos slides into place on his right; Aramis is behind him and Treville leads the way. It's uncomfortably like being escorted to execution, but he doesn't say anything.

Court is in session; Treville and Porthos go in alone while the others wait in an alcove. d'Artagnan leans against the back wall, concentrating on a flaw in the wood panelling as intently as he can, trying not to panic. He's never deserted, not in his heart, but right now if he had the option he thinks he might take it.

"Look who's turned back up!"

He looks up, alarmed. Constance is standing in the corridor, arms folded as she looks at Aramis and Athos. "Another of your fly by night visits?"

"No," Athos says quietly. "No, I think we're home now."

Constance hesitates. "All of you?"

Aramis and Athos are shoulder to shoulder, blocking the alcove almost completely. Between them and the shadows, d'Artagnan is invisible from outside. If he only stands still, she won't know he's here, and the others don't seem to have any intention of telling her.

He moves.

Aramis glances back at the hand on his shoulder, shuffling to one side. Constance's eyes widen and she throws herself at him; d'Artagnan catches her, but he stumbles and the others have to steady him.

Constance immediately pulls back. "I'm sorry! Are you hurt?"

"Just very, very tired." He smiles at her, reaching out to push a curl off her face; his sleeve slips down past his elbow, and he tries to discretely shake it back into place. "How are you? You look well; court life agrees with you."

"I'm fine." She's still looking at him. "And you?"

"Tired," he repeats.

Her eyes dart to his wrist, where his scars are now exposed, and back to his face. "I won't keep you, then, I'm sure you'll have enough to deal with the king and the queen will be looking for me. Come find me, when you're settled back in? I've missed you."

"I will," he agrees. Constance nods to the others, hurrying away.

d'Artagnan backs up until he hits the wall with a thump, staring blindly past the others. "She looks well," he manages.

"She is well," Athos agrees.

"She's the queen's closest companion," Aramis adds. "It's been good for both of them, I think."

Porthos appears, eyeing d'Artagnan curiously before telling Athos "They're clearing the court. A couple of minutes, they'll be ready for us."

"They," d'Artagnan repeats.

"The king and queen. No one else, just us."

"The queen knows," d'Artagnan murmurs.

"In general. I believe the king has made some effort to hide the worst parts from her." Athos studies him. "d'Artagnan, are you all right?"

"Can I have something to drink, please?"

Porthos goes to find the nearest page boy and returns a minute later with a large glass of wine. d'Artagnan takes it gratefully, just about managing to sip it rather than gulp; half way through the glass he gives up and passes it to Athos. It's only making the sick feeling in his stomach worse.

The corridor’s been emptying for a while when Treville steps out of the throne room, catching Athos’ eye and gesturing. “Come along.”

Everyone waits for d'Artagnan. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and steps out of the alcove.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're there!
> 
> Thank you all so much for the comments, the kudos and the support. I am trying to see if there's a sequel lurking in the ether, so keep an eye out.
> 
> Starting sometime in the next couple of weeks, I have a very different project, so keep an eye out for that as well.
> 
> (many hugs)

Anne is sitting on her throne, watching patiently as Louis paces near the windows. He spins around as they enter, beaming widely. “Charles!”

“Henri,” d'Artagnan says automatically, and immediately pales so drastically Aramis leans in to steady him. “I – I’m sorry, your majesty, I didn’t –“

Louis shakes his head, coming to grip d'Artagnan’s arm lightly. “Never be sorry in my presence,” he says quietly. “Never, Charles.” Letting go and raising his voice, he adds, “In the company of these people here present, you are free to call me Henri.”

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan mumbles. He’s vaguely surprised that hearing _Charles_ doesn’t bother him, but then Louis called him that up until he was released. 

Remembering himself, he adds, “Porthos told me you funded the others while they looked for me. Thank you.”

“It’s the very least I could do. The very least.” He studies d'Artagnan for a moment; like Constance, he notes his wrists, but like Constance he doesn’t comment. “I was a terrible king, Charles. I’m trying to be better, now. If you can sacrifice like that for me – I’m trying to be worth it.”

“If you’re trying, you’re already worth it,” d'Artagnan says quietly.

Louis turns away abruptly, going back to join Anne. “I hope you’ll consider staying here at the palace while you recover. If you’d rather stay at the garrison, of course, I understand, but your brothers are welcome to stay here with you if that helps. I leave it to the good captain to judge when you’re fit to return to work, but your wages will be paid all the time – and there is back payment for the last year and a half, too. Rochefort has his orders, you can make arrangements with him.”

“Thank you, si – thank you, Henri,” d'Artagnan corrects himself. The sheer joy on Louis’ face makes it worth it, and he makes a mental note to try his best to remember. “How is the Dauphin?” he adds.

Louis’ face lights up. “Growing like a weed. You must see him when you feel up to it.”

“I’d like that,” d'Artagnan agrees.

“Do I need to worry about reprisals, Charles?” Louis asks. d'Artagnan frowns and Louis adds “From the Spanish?”

“Oh – no, I don’t think so. Domingo released me willingly.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it willingly,” Athos murmurs.

“You don’t know anything about it,” d'Artagnan snaps.

“I know what I saw –“

“You don’t know anything about him.” Turning back to Louis, he adds, “It’s safe, Henri. He won’t come looking.”

“You’re sure?” Louis is ignoring Athos, now whispering fiercely with Aramis and Porthos.

“I’m sure. He said – I would have run eventually. He let me go so that I wouldn’t have to break my oath.”

“The man beat you!” Athos protests. d'Artagnan ignores him, watching Louis until he nods. He probably doesn’t understand, but he’ll accept d'Artagnan’s words. 

Anne shifts slightly, looking at Louis. He nods, holding out a hand to help her as she rises and comes towards d'Artagnan.

“I wish to thank you, for my husband’s life,” she says.

“Your majesty, it really wasn’t anything…”

“It was.” She reaches gently for his arm, studying his wrist with a slight frown. “I will make you an offer, Charles,” she says, letting him go. d'Artagnan stifles the urge to hide his wrist behind his back. “And it is an offer; you are free to say no without penalty or blame. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“The Dauphin will soon be old enough to appear at Court and to the people. He will need a dedicated guard, I hope one of the fine men of the Musketeers. With what you have sacrificed for his father, I know that I can trust his safety to you. Please don’t answer now,” she adds quickly. “He will need both a permanent guard and a second for state occasions; if you choose to accept, your duties with the Musketeers will remain unchanged apart from those occasions when he needs you, or you may be his permanent guard if you’d like. Please take some time and consider this, and as I have said, if you choose to decline there will be no penalty nor any change in your circumstances.”

“I’m honoured that you would think of me, your majesty,” d'Artagnan manages, bowing.

She smiles gently. “You’re tired. Will you stay here for tonight, at least? I should like to speak to you before you return to the garrison.”

d'Artagnan can’t quite decide what he’s supposed to say; he settles on “Thank you,” and that seems to satisfy her.

Turning to Aramis, she asks “Would you like to stay with him?”

“We’ll share a room, your majesty,” Athos answers for him. Anne nods, looking completely unsurprised, and glances towards the door. Porthos steps around d'Artagnan to go and open it; Constance is waiting on the other side, along with a man who’s probably Louis’ manservant. Rochefort is lurking behind them, watching carefully.

“Constance, d'Artagnan and his brothers are staying here tonight,” Anne tells her. “Please ensure that a room is made ready for them.”

“Of course,” Constance agrees, glancing curiously at d'Artagnan before leaving.

Anne smiles at d'Artagnan again. “Anything you need, d'Artagnan.”

“Right now, only sleep, your majesty.” He says it in Spanish, deliberately, for the smile on her face when she hears the language.

She nods easily. “Of course.” She waves towards the door as Constance reappears. “Take what time you need, d'Artagnan.”

“I look forward to talking with you when you feel better, Charles,” Louis adds.

Athos touches d'Artagnan’s shoulder, steering him towards the door. Constance mouths ‘Charles?’ as they reach her, but she doesn’t say anything, just steps back to make room for them.

d'Artagnan hesitates at the door; Athos leans against him gently to keep him moving, but he dodges the touch and goes back towards the king and queen. “Your majesty?”

“Yes?” Louis says curiously.

d'Artagnan glances briefly at the others – Athos is blocking Rochefort and Constance, the others are watching him carefully – before turning back to Louis, telling him in quick, easy Spanish, "I'm very grateful. For everything you've done, and offered. But I'm not – I don't know if I can be a Musketeer, any more."

"Why not?" Louis says evenly.

"I am not what I was. I don't know what will happen if someone shouts at me in Spanish; I don't know how well I can fight. I don't know if you can trust me."

"Do you want to be a Musketeer, Charles?"

"More than anything, but..."

"No buts," Louis interrupts him. "If you want to be a Musketeer, we'll find a way. If you want another position, if you want to leave Paris, even – although I hope you won't – then it will happen. But this is not something to worry about tonight."

Anne nods quickly. "You're tired and upset, d'Artagnan. It's only to be expected. Please, go with your brothers and rest. If, in a few days, you still feel this way, we will do what we can to help you. But – if it means anything to you – I still believe my son could have no better guardian than you."

d'Artagnan kisses her hand without thinking; there are tears in his eyes, and he knows it, but he doesn't care much. "Thank you, your majesty."

Anne touches his cheek gently. Her eyes are very warm, and the sympathy there – not pity; d'Artagnan knows the difference – takes his breath away. "Rest. Please."

"Yes, your majesty."

Porthos is there when he turns, supporting him without looking like he is, warm and solid. d'Artagnan takes a deep breath, pulling his composure back around himself like a cloak, trying to avoid giving too much away to Constance. It's probably futile – she knows him as well as anyone – but he can't stand another confrontation right now.

Rochefort is still watching. d'Artagnan knows he should be paying more attention – Rochefort is dangerous – but he can’t bring himself to care.

Out in the corridor Treville takes a step away. “I won’t expect you until I see you at the garrison, d'Artagnan,” he says quietly. “Take the time you need – and I'll be checking with the others, so no cheating and coming back early. It’s good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be back, sir. Thank you.” _Thank you_ seems so inadequate, but with Constance still watching it’s the best he can manage. Treville nods briskly, turning on his heel to walk away.

Constance leads them to a room that’s clearly been hastily prepared; the bed’s big enough to take at least two of them, but there’s also three cots pushed neatly against a wall and piled with blankets. “I’m sorry, it’s the best I could do,” she says apologetically.

“It’s perfect,” d'Artagnan assures her.

“Can I get you anything else? Something to eat?”

“Not for me, thank you. I’m just going to sleep.”

“We’re fine, Constance, thank you.” Aramis puts an arm around her shoulders, ushering her to the door. “We’ll be sure and call if we need anything.”

Constance murmurs something that Aramis answers very quietly. d'Artagnan doesn’t bother trying to listen, crossing to drop onto the bed, flopping onto his back.

“Take off a few layers, lad,” Porthos says quietly. d'Artagnan waves vaguely, unmoving apart from that.

Aramis closes the door and comes to join them. “Come on, d'Artagnan, you’ll feel worse if you sleep like that.”

“I’m tired,” d'Artagnan murmurs. He really is; he feels like the last year and a half are catching up to him all at once.

“I know. Sit up. This will just take a minute.”

It’s oddly comforting that Aramis doesn’t seem to realise he’s just given an order. d'Artagnan sits up, kicking off his boots and dragging off his jerkin and trousers. He doesn’t remove the tunic and no one suggests he should.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos says, voice tight.

“I know what Domingo is,” d'Artagnan says without looking up. “Believe me, I have no illusions about him. You spent half a day in his house and half an hour in his company; you don’t know anything about him. That’s just – a fact.”

“I know that he hurt you. Often. For no reason.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head. He still isn’t looking up; he can’t bear to look at them right now. “It doesn’t mean everything he did was bad; it doesn’t mean he was bad all the way through. Athos, _stop_. Just – let it be. Please.”

Porthos touches his shoulder lightly; d'Artagnan twitches, but he doesn’t move away. “I spent longer in Spain than I did in the garrison,” he says quietly. “It’s – just – stop trying to tell me you know him better than I do.”

There is silence for a long time, and he wonders idly what they’re telling each other with head tilts and eyebrow lifts.

“My – apologies,” Athos says finally. “I didn’t mean…”

He trails off and d'Artagnan nods. “You didn’t. I know. Just – “ He gives up, lying back and slinging an arm over his eyes to block them for just a moment. Just a moment; enough time to regroup, to stop bleeding like this.

Porthos has moved to speak quietly with Athos by the window. Aramis leans towards d'Artagnan, lowering his voice. “d'Artagnan, do you want to sleep alone, or company? Either is fine but I have to know so I can arrange it.”

d'Artagnan lowers his arm, blinking at him. Camping on the road meant they generally ended up piled together for warmth no matter how they started out, but several times he woke flailing away from them, unable to bear the touch of another person. Aramis has taken to asking him how he feels about it whenever he can.

“d'Artagnan,” Aramis repeats gently. “Please look at me. What do you need today?”

“Company,” he murmurs. To know they aren’t angry with him… “But I can’t promise I won’t need space in another hour.”

“If you need space in an hour, push me out.” Aramis grins, scrambling over him in a blur of motion and stretching out on the other side of the mattress.

“Strange, we seem to have been left out of this decision,” Athos says from the window.

“Not my fault you move so slowly,” Aramis says without moving. “It’s far too soft, anyway, you’d never sleep. The cot is more your style.”

“I was a Comte,” Athos reminds him. “I’ve slept on better beds than you’ve ever seen. Although certainly not as many.”

“Variety is the spice of life,” Aramis says lightly.

“Am I supposed to say yes?” d'Artagnan asks abruptly.

There’s silence in the room – he can picture the other three sharing looks – before Aramis says carefully, “It’s a great honour.”

“If I say no, she might offer it to you.” Aramis adores the Dauphin; he remembers that much, and it makes him oddly sad that Aramis has spent so long in Spain looking for him and away from the child he loved so much.

“She’ll never offer it to me,” Aramis says gently. “Don’t let that influence you.”

“For what it’s worth, if you say no, I believe she will ensure no one treats you differently,” Athos offers, coming to lean against the end of the bed where d'Artagnan can see him without moving.

“If I say no and something happens…” d'Artagnan trails off.

“Thinking like that’ll drive you mad,” Porthos says from somewhere beyond Aramis.

“Sleep on it,” Aramis suggests. “Take some time. You’re only just home, and this won’t be relevant for six months at least.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he says carefully. The others have been careful not to suggest sparring or anything else; he honestly doesn’t know what will happen when he draws his blade.

“We have time to work on that,” Athos tells him.

“It scares me,” d'Artagnan says in Spanish, glancing at Aramis.

“It would me, too,” Aramis agrees in French, “and Athos and Porthos have a basic knowledge of Spanish now, just so you know.” d'Artagnan groans, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow.

“Only very basic,” Porthos offers. “But a year and a half’ll do that to you, I guess.”

d'Artagnan mumbles something into the pillow. Aramis laughs, resting a hand on the back on his neck, coaxing him to turn before he suffocates.

“Sleep on it,” he says again. “We’re here.”

d'Artagnan nods drowsily, edging closer to Aramis. Aramis lets him settle as he likes, head pillowed on one of Aramis’ arms without touching him anywhere else.

“Card game?” Porthos suggests.

“Drink?” Athos counters.

“Drink and cards?”

“Do you have drink or cards?” Aramis asks interestedly.

“I’m pretty sure we can get anything we want right now, just ‘cause we’re sharing a room with the King’s favourite.”

“And you’re going to waste that on cards and drink?”

“Cards are never a waste.”

“Nor is the kind of drink they’d have here,” Athos adds.

d'Artagnan smiles to himself, feeling himself drift into sleep. Aramis is warm and steady underneath him; the others are close enough to hear, and he knows if he reaches out they’ll come to him. Louis isn’t angry at him, and neither is Treville; he’s been thanked and honoured. He may be having problems, still, but he will overcome them, and if he needs help he will only need to ask. He is home, and safe, and he can relax for the first time in a year and a half.

He lets himself fall.


End file.
